


Gilded

by Eilinelithil



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: A Monthly Rumbelling (Once Upon a Time), A Monthly Rumbelling March 2020 (Once Upon a Time), Canon Compliant, F/M, I promise, Not Canon Compliant, Work That One Out If You Can, it will all make sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23363797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eilinelithil/pseuds/Eilinelithil
Summary: Belle fears she is to become trapped in a gilded cage of her father, and Lord Gaston's making, with no relief and no way to be herself... until she meets the enigmatic little man trapped in the darkest, shadowed corner of the castle's library...  Written for the March 2020 Monthly Rumbelling.
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	Gilded

If ever she needed proof that the marriage her father intended for her was little more than a gilded cage, she had only to look at the vanity, with it’s delicate lace runner, on which a golden hand mirror was obscured by a brush and comb of burnished gold. She hadn’t touched them, any of them - preferring always to use her own things, not the things that were provided for her. Her own things gave her the comfort of remembering her mother, and it was a comfort… her only comfort, besides her books, and her dreams of adventure.

Belle wished for relief; she wished for release.

* * *

He knew, no, _hoped_ that sooner or later she would find her way to him, to his lair, though not truly a lair in the exact sense of the word, rather… his shadowed corner of the library. So, he waited.

He had enchanted the items that his _lordship_ had left for her in the chambers meant as her cage. In hindsight, if she were half the woman he thought her to be, it was a waste of time and magic. She would no more accept such _gifts_ from the man who would be her master than she would accept the man himself; not without coercion. He seethed at the thought.

The Dark One wished for retribution; he wished for release.

* * *

The dream from which Belle woke the first night stayed with her mere moments, except for the final words, the compulsion that sat in the front of her mind, whispering over and over… _Find me_. She was certain that if she could have remembered more of the dream, she would have been more sure of who needed, or wanted to be found, but she could not, so spent the day - in the guise of getting to know her away around her future home - searching the castle for someone, _anyone_ who looked lost or out of place.

She had no idea why it was so important to her, because it had just been a dream after all, but she’d had such dreams before and they had turned out to be insights into a hidden truth or a problem to be solved. Her mother always told her that it was her mind’s way of bringing her perception to the fore; things that she had noticed unconsciously, and which wanted her attention, and not any kind of second sight, or supernatural knowledge. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to ignore it. What if someone else were in trouble, some other poor soul taken from their home and put to work in a place they did not wish to be? Yet the servants - while not exactly _happy_ \- did not seem to be in any kind of enforced servitude.

The second morning, when she woke, there was a book resting on the bed beside her pillow. With a frown, she sat up and reached for the tome, pulling it onto her lap and flipping open the cover. Her eyes lit up with delight. The book was of ancient languages; languages older even than her father’s library contained.

Intrigued, she lost herself in the book, only looking up when her maids came in, worrying after her health, since she was still abed. With her nose in the book she allowed them to lead her to her dressing room, dress her and fix her hair. It was in near panic, therefore, that she flicked her head up from the book when they told her that his lordship wished to walk with her in the gardens.

“What? No… I… I can’t, I--”

“My lady, he’s to be your husband,” the oldest of her maids protested.

“And I have no wish to walk,” Belle protested, lifting her head, and tucking the heavy tome under her arm. “Is your lord the kind of man that would force a woman to do something against her will?”

The maids shifted uncomfortably, and so Belle pressed, “Well…? Out with it?”

“It’s just that… well, Lord Gaston is used to getting what he wants,” a maid answered, still fidgeting and all but wringing her hands.

“Then he’ll just have to get _un_ used to it,” Belle declared with a nod, stamping down her own disquiet with determination. Then, she stalked away from the fussing maids, sat down in her drawing room, and opened up the book once more, losing herself to the hours.

* * *

“She denied me!”

“Oh, how tragic,” Rumplestiltskin answered Gaston’s roar of anger with the lilting bite of his sarcasm as the man stalked back and forth across the library carpet, blustering with more hot air, presumably, at the Dark One’s lack of response. “I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.”

There was an accented lilt to his impish voice, as he waved a hand flamboyantly waiting for the fat-headed ox to turn his irritation and blame to him, as though _he_ had been the cause of Belle’s refusal to meet with the spoiled nobleman. He did not have to wait long.

“You know full well what I want from you, Dark One,” Gaston bellowed. “You _will_ make her come to me, and you _will_ make her mine!”

Rumplestiltskin’s voice lowered to a growl, a mere whisper of danger, as he said, “And I told _you_ that there are things that magic _cannot_ do and as much as you—”

“You forget—” Gaston interrupted, drawing breath against the eruption that was awaiting inside of the Dark One.

“I forget _nothing_ ,” he snarled, and dared a small step outside of the shadow in the corner of the room, his fists clenched at his sides and Gaston stiffened as though steel bars were wrapped around him, fighting for balance and for breath. “You may have command over me in this… for the moment, but nothing lasts forever, and the Dark One’s memory is very. Long. Indeed… Dearie.”

* * *

For all that she avoided the walk in the garden - though a walk in the garden was something she would dearly have loved, just not with her would-be jailer - there was little she could do to avoid dinner that day, or breakfast the following, and dinner again on the evening of the nest day. She committed, however, to non-commitment, refusing to allow herself to be drawn into speaking by Gaston or any other he brought to the table. _She_ would decide when to engage in conversation and about what, so to Gaston, his father, noblewomen of the kingdom she remained polite, but distant. After each evening, she would respectfully excuse herself and retire to her rooms, dismissing her maids and leaning on her door after she closed it behind them almost with relief.

Only when she was certain she would be undisturbed, would she take out the book from where she had hidden it and continue reading, letting her fascination with the ancient languages; with the arcane tongues, and with Fairy in particular sweep her away to other places; other times.

* * *

He missed his wheel and the peace it brought to his unquiet mind. Without it there was nothing to keep his thoughts away, nothing to keep the sight from driving him to the brink of madness with uncertain futures, and knotted strands of would-be possibilities; nothing to keep the memories from returning, all of them. No one came to speak with him after his little _demonstration_ of the folly in attempting to control the Dark One - certainly not Gaston, thank the gods - and the maids that brought the bowls of gruel and cups of water to his shadowy corner were barely there long enough to drop the tray, turn tail and run, lest they catch sight of the ‘evil monster’ in the library.

Neither had Belle succumbed to the natural charm of the book - oh, not magic of any real kind, only that he knew of her love of books, and of her cleverness and worldly knowledge. It was a marvel, he thought, just what one could glean from an oh-so-willing supplicant as Gaston. He growled then in remembrance of the infernal interference that had disadvantaged him and left him in his current predicament. Trapped in the shadows, to do the bidding of the greedy, errant lordling.

_Damn her hide!_ His thoughts turned from Belle to the one responsible for it all, though as angry as he was, he couldn’t complain _too_ much, because it seemed he was managing to turn matters to his advantage - find the loopholes, and lay the ground for the future. Still, _damn her hide_ for her annoying interference.

Curling up into the most lightless part of the room he let go of his hard won control, and allowed himself to see… 

_The fall of a cup - the snip of scissors at the stem of a rose - the spinning of a wheel - mirrors… mirrors everywhere… a woven basket full of child and a dark night road - a warm burning fire in a stone hearth - the gentle brush of fingers through his hair_.

“Um… hello?”

Rumplestiltskin startled out of his trance, spun on the spot even as he uncurled from the fetal ball into which he had curled himself, and dared to begin to unwind as the voice came again.

* * *

“Hello?”

Belle though she heard a sob followed by a soft moan as she crept into the library… _find me_ … the words, half remembered now, filtered through her mind. Why hadn’t she thought to look there, in the library. She had looked everywhere else. She sensed movement from the corner of the room, where the light held little sway, and moved slowly toward the darkened space, half afraid that she would frighten whomever was there, and half afraid for herself; for what she might find there.

“Are you all right?” she called out softly as she approached.

“All right…” the echo came from the corner she approached, softly sing-song and accented strangely, almost crooning. “Yes, yes… quite all right.”

She stopped a little way away from the speaker, peering into the shadow to make out the shape - a wiry little man, from what she could see, which wasn’t much. It seemed as if the light shied away from him, or the darkness gathered to cloak him from sight.

“Was it—?” Belle started to ask, but then stopped herself.

“Go on,” the man prompted. “You can ask.” Then, with a chuckle, added, “I won’t bite, Dearie.”

Belle did - her lip anyway, drawing it between her teeth as she tried to work out anything she could about the person to whom she was speaking, and longing but not daring to ask who he was. Instead she finished the question that seemed the most important in her mind.

“Was it you that brought me the book?”

“Brought it? Brought it, no, but…” he giggle softly, and there was a sound as though he were clapping his hands, “but _sent_ it. Sent it, yes. Clever girl. Clever, _clever_ girl. Found me out, you did.”

Belle joined him, chuckling a little as he let out a sound of pure mirth, but as the laughter faded, founder herself asking, “Why?”

“Why?” he echoed, as though the question confused him, and in a shifting accent, and with a shuffled half step forward until she could see him more clearly than a mere silhouette, answered with a flourish of his arms, “Because I wanted you to read it, of course!”

“But,” Belle faltered, surprised, and then asked, “Why?”

“Because.” He answered, sounding rather peevish.

“Because what?” Belle pressed in spite of his apparent annoyance with her questions. “And who are you? And why are you hiding in the shadows?”

“What, who… why?” he repeated. “So many question. Questions, questions, questions. Why do you want to know?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but then stopped, her answer hanging in the air between then like a tangible thing; a cord ready to bind them. She remembered the voice she had heard in her head, the ending of her dream, and she held her breath as she and the strange little man spoke together.

“Because…”

“Yes…?”

“…you said to find you… and… and I… want to know you.”

Even as she answered, she surprised herself to discover that it was true. She did want to know this strange man who had sent her such a wonderful book to read; who seemed so strange, with behavior so bizarre and yet, even in the short amount of time she had spent with him - mere minutes - was strangely enticing.

He let out his impish little giggle, accompanied by the light sound of his clapping hands, and she heard the shuffle of feet and the silhouette in the darkness moved toward the light.

“Want to know me, hmmm?” he crooned, “The monster that lives in the dark. The beast.”

Belle gasped as the man stepped into the dim light at the edge of the shadow, one step… then two… to stand before her. Her head tipped in curiosity, taking in his strangely snakelike gold-flecked skin, his wavy hair; blackened teeth and nails, and golden eyes that held all the menace and darkness the world possessed. She saw, though, that they also held sadness, sadness and hope and longing. Compassion flooded her heart.

* * *

He held his breath as he stepped into towards light, almost faltered at her gasp, but took several, almost free steps into the room, no longer confined to the deepest dark - no longer in pain from the light. He held very still as her small hand reached out, steadily, to touch the skin of his cheek with her fingertips. His eyes closed. Never… never had he been touched like that, her fingers like feathers against his skin. Warm… welcome…

“Hardly a monster,” she said, and her voice was soft and filled with a kind of curious wonder as her fingers tentatively moved from his skin to take a strand of his hair between her fingers, as though feeling its softness.

He allowed it as long as he could stand, before the fingers of his own hand curled around her wrist, lifting her hand away from touching him, feeling the absence of her touch almost immediately.

“Oh, but I can be, Dearie,” he answered in a low, rumbling tone, and felt her shiver; watched as her skin pebbled with tiny goose bumps, and took a breath, his own responding as he felt the bonds of his geas beginning to loosen. If only…

“You sent me the book,” she whispered, and he tipped his head to the side, curious as to where she was going with the thought. “Why? Are there others?”

He chuckled. He knew full well what she meant, but wasn’t ready to test her yet - to really, truly test her. He was almost too afraid to be disappointed.

“This is a library,” he said as he let go of her and spread his arms, turning around in a circle. “What do you think?”

“You _know_ what I meant!” she accused softly, and he took in a deeper breath and dropping all pretense at playfulness looked her deeply in the eyes answered her softly.

“Many, and I can let you see them, if…”

“If?” she questioned, and, he noted, shifting a little uncomfortably under the intensity of his gaze.

He leaned toward her then, almost nose to nose, and said softly, “If you’ll agree to visit with me… just a little time each day.”

“Agree, I…” she moistened her lip with a furtive sweep of her tongue, causing him to pull back; to fuss with his lace cravat for a moment, his eyes downcast. His heart lurched, fearing she’d turn him down; that the curse under which he was trapped in the darkest corner of Lord Legume’s castle would never be broken. Yet, when she began again, it was relief that flowed through him as he let his eyes rove over the dusty and neglected titles lying abandoned on even dustier shelves. That a place of learning such as this should be as neglected as it was in a castle full of thick headed lummoxes who were trying to attract the daughter of such an educated woman as Collette of Avonlea - in spite of such a matching attitude in her father - was not lost on him.

“Agree? I’d be delighted!” Belle said, and he looked up to find himself as trapped as he was by the geas set upon him, by the brightness of her beautiful smile. He remembered himself moments later, and flustered stepped away a little, for a time not even realizing that he had almost been standing in the light, and turned, almost dancing in circles with the sheer joy of her response, until her musical giggle reached his ears and he stopped.

“What?” he asked, as if bemused.

“For a moment there I thought I’d done something wrong, with the way you were staring at me,” she said, “but now…?” 

She gestured at him in a way, he realized, that was meant to convey his expression of happiness.

“Yes, well,” he said as archly as he could, “Don’t get used to it, Dearie. I’m very serious. Yes, as serious as they come, now…” he wrinkled his nose, tipped his head to one side and asked, “Where were we?”

“You had just agreed to let me see the other books, like the one you sent to me, if I will visit with you daily,” she reminded him. “And I said I’d like that.”

He let out another gleeful giggle and clapped his hands together soundlessly.

“So,” she went on, “when do we begin?”

“Such eagerness,” he purred. “So very keen.”

“Well, there’s no time like the present,” she said earnestly, then he saw her frown as his expression became serious once more.

“Oh, but alas,” he began, “you must go and prepare for dinner.”

“Dinner?” Her frown deepened.

“Yes,” he said, wrinkling his nose, “With the young lord.”

“With Gaston?” she said, her voice high in pitch.

“Yes. You were, after all, invited, were you not?”

“Demanded, more like,” she snapped and began pacing back and for in front of him, throwing the occasional look of angry disparagement in his direction before she added, “And I have no desire to attend him. I already told him that. Several times!”

“Oh, I know all that,” said Rumplestiltskin, his voice reflecting his lazy boredom with the lord of the castle’s desires and demands. “But, just for the sake of argument, what if one little dinner with _him_ meant that you could spend… longer in the library - _undisturbed_?”

“Really?” she asked, and he could hear the hopeful excitement in her voice.

“I can make sure of it,” he told her in a singsong voice, gesturing wildly with a hand held up, finger pointed to the ceiling as though the source of all their woes were above, the other arm across his chest. She stopped pacing and stepped into the edge of the shadow, and reached out to grasp his arm in excitement.

“You’re _absolutely_ sure he’ll leave me alone?”

“Yes,” he hissed the words between his teeth. He was certain, because if the young lordling _didn’t_ …? The threat was silent, and only in his head, but while _he_ might be confined to the shadowy corner of the library, his magic was not. He did so love a good loophole.

“All right then,” she said, and began to turn away, but he caught her arm to hold her in place

Leaning close then, he murmured softly against the shell of her ear, “But let’s make this our little secret…” He felt her shiver again, before she nodded, and then he let her turn and walk away, and he retreated to his shadowy corner, humming quietly to himself.

* * *

Belle was awake almost with the cock crow the following morning. Dinner had been a dull and dreary occasion - boring, filled with talk of hunting and martial prowess, and not at all the deep and engaging conversation for which she longed. She rose and dressed quickly, almost before her maids had arrived. Now that she had _found_ the library, and the strange little man with his promise of ancient texts, she was anxious to get there, spend time there; read the books he promised.

As soon as she was able, she hurried to the room and let herself in. There, she stopped suddenly and drew in a breath of surprise, wondering for several moments whether she had found her way to the wrong room. Gone was the dust, and the dank dreary darkness - all apart from the furthest corner; the one that hid the strange little man, but otherwise the drapes were open, there was a fire in the hearth to take away the chill in the air, and on a table near to the fireplace was set a silver tea service, and a plate with fruit and cheese, bread and honey.

“No need to stand on ceremony.” His voice came out of the shadows as it had the day before. “You’re letting in a draught.”

She couldn’t help but chuckle, came into the room and closed the door behind her. Turning back to address the shadow, she asked, “There. Better?”

“Much,” he answered. “Now come. Eat your breakfast, and take some tea.”

“Bossy, aren’t you?” she accused softly, though in a tone of amusement.

“I thought you wanted to read these books of mine,” he said.

“I do,” she said, and crossed to the chair beside the little table, and began to pour herself some tea. “But that doesn’t mean you can tell me what to do.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Dearie.”

Before she sat, she turned the chair so that she could see the dark shadows in the corner of the room, and if she peered hard enough, could just about see the shape of the man within. She searched the tray for a second cup and finding none, frowned.

“Won’t you join me?” she asked.

“Can’t,” he barked.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t,” he repeated.

“Whyever not?” she frowned in confusion and picked up a piece of cheese to nibble at, and a single round grape.

“Too much light.”

Belle frowned. “But yesterday you left your dark corner.”

“It was sunset,” he reminded her, and she heard a hint of sarcasm, before he declared, overly dramatic, “Not much light then.”

She harrumphed, and set down her tea, starting to cross the room towards the window as she said, “Then we’ll _make_ some shadow, because if I’m going to spend any length of time with you, I won’t be talking to a corner of the room.”

She heard him giggle his strange little sound that made her smile without her ever intending to, and as soon as she reached the window she took hold of the drapes closest to his shadowed little corner, and tugged them closed, extending the shadow from the corner, out past the little table where the tea and the food sat awaiting her attention.

“Now,” she said, turning to face into the corner and gesturing to the shadowed table. “It’s no lighter than it was yesterday afternoon, so please, come and take tea with me.”

His giggle dissolved into the beginnings of a first word as he spoke. “I’d be delighted,” he said, echoing her words of the day before, and she returned to her place by the fire and, with barely concealed surprise, turned a second cup, which had not been there before, right-side-up and poured him a cup of tea as he shuffled closer.

* * *

He watched her curiously out of the corner of his eye, sipping his tea from the china cup, his little finger extended and straight, playful and yet serious, both at the same time. The closed drape provided just the right amount of shadow to allow him to extend his freedom almost the entire first third of the room, and in her presence he began to feel the effects of his confinement waning. Setting down his cup, he rose once more from the seat he had taken and stalked around his new demesne while Belle finished her breakfast and then daintily wiped her hands clean on a soft cotton cloth.

She turned first one way, and then another as if to find him, and he leaned down, around the high back of the chair to murmur almost into her ear as she looked the opposite way.

“Still here, Dearie,” he teased. “So, ready to begin?”

“Quite ready,” she said, a little breathlessly from where he’d startled her.

“Then let’s try…” he trailed off, miming as though he were searching through an unseen bookshelf and then suddenly made a face of great excitement, speaking more to himself than to Belle as he said, “Oh, yes! This one. You’ll like this one, I’m sure of it.”

From out of thin air in a drift of purple smoke, a large, thick tome appeared in his hands, drawing a gasp of surprise from Belle, and with a brief caress to the book’s deep brown cover, he opened it, and set it almost tenderly into Belle’s lap.

“So, you’re a sorcerer then?” she asked.

“Of a sort,” he said, and then before she could ask further of him added, almost crooning, “Take your time. I think you’ll find this one is _full_ of surprises.”

He practically sang the last three words, then moved away to watch as Belle ran the caress of her eyes over the pages of the book, sometimes flicking back and forth between pages, but always with a look of wonder on her face.

He mused that it might not take as long as he had feared to find his freedom with her help, and found he had mixed feelings. On the one hand he could not _stand_ being confined in this rotten place; locked in the only place in the entire castle where none of the muscle-bounds idiots ever came, unless of course they wanted something from him, and he longed for his freedom. Not only did he want to get away and back to his own Dark Castle, but he also wanted to show that annoying little gnat just how foolish she had been to act against the Dark One; how futile and dangerous her actions. On the other hand, even as little time as they had spent together so far, he _enjoyed_ Belle’s company and now, too, enjoyed watching the expression of sheer joy upon her face as she read. It was also that joy that he must capture, to release the first strand of the geas that bound him. The impossible trinity of joy, sorrow, and trust; with the fourth and most impossible of them all - acceptance.

Each day she came, they did the same; danced the same, metaphorical dance, but he felt himself drawn closer to her somehow, and sensed the same in her. She would come in, and even before sitting down to take tea she closed the drape closes to his corner and teased, with some soft phrase or another, then head to the table where the tea was set beside her breakfast of bread and honey, fruit and cheese. The ritual of it, the happiness with which she entered the library and did all of those things was beginning to rub off on him.

The last day of the week dawned, and he found himself watching as the edge of sunlight crept closer and nearer to his shadowed corner, and he held his breath, not in anticipation of the pain the light brought him, but of the happiness _he_ would feel the moment Belle came into the library.

Not a moment beyond the time he anticipated, the library door opened, and he heard her rapid footsteps heading toward the window as always, to close the drapes. They were half way shut, her hand grasping the heavy fabric once more, ready to pull it the rest of the way, when he finally called out, “Wait!”

She stopped at once and turned to face him in his not-quite-so-dark corner, and gave him a frown that was heavy with concern.

“What is it?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” he answered calmly, though in a soft sing-song voice. “It’s just… I think that will be enough for today. No need to close it all the way.”

“But I…” she faltered, then began again. “I though you said the light hurt you.”

“I did,” he said. “It did.”

“Then—” she grasped the curtain again, meaning to pull it closed.

“But not now, see?” he stepped forward into the better lit, though still dimly shadowed part of the room beyond his darkest of dark corners. “I think you cured me of that.”

“What?” she asked, but he could feel the breathless hope trembling in her. “How?”

“Quite simple really, Belle,” he said “Seeing your happiness at reading my books is… freeing me from my shadows.”

* * *

A bolt of almost pure joy ran through her like lightning at his words, and before she knew what she was doing, she had crossed the space between the curtain and where he stood and threw her arms around his shoulders. She hugged him tightly, oblivious to his sudden awkwardness until the soft pat pat pat of his touch fell hesitantly on her back.

She drew back, though she still held on to his elbows.

“Oh,” she said, her face beaming with joy, “this is wonderful!”

He chuckled, and she laughed with him, and then taking his hand she tugged him toward the table so they could share their morning tea.

“Why don’t you let _me_ do that?” he said as she steered him toward a chair and reached for the tea pot.

She glanced up at him then, taking in the site of his burnished skin, with his green-gold scales that so fascinated her. They caught her attention even more now that she could see him in the better light. She shook her head.

“I’ve had a lifetime of being served, and frankly I’ve had enough of it. It’s little enough I can do for all the joy you’ve given to me in letting me read your books. A small price to pay.”

She handed him his tea, and he accepted it with a chuckle and said darkly dramatic, “You might feel differently if ya knew who it was ya served.”

She sat back, her own tea balanced against her thigh as she asked, “Why? Who are you anyway?”

He frowned, and then spent very many minutes looking at her as though he thought she’d lost her mind.

“You really don’t know?” he asked, and tipped his head to the side.

“Don’t know, and don’t care,” she answered in a clipped tone, before taking a sip of her tea. “Though it might make it easier to know what to call you.”

She met his golden eyes as he appeared to study her, as if weighing up however she might react to the revelation of his name. Eventually he broke their gaze and took a sip from the teacup he held in his hands, and said softly, “You may call me… Rumplestiltskin.”

“Rumplestiltskin,” she whispered softly once, and again, the sound of it, the syllables making light dance behind her suddenly closed eyes.

“Careful, Dearie,” he teased, and she started, opening her eyes again, and giving him an apologetic smile as he said, “Too much of a good thing…”

* * *

He studied the blush that rose in her cheeks at his admonition, found it endearing, and surprised he studied her more deeply, allowing hope to flare in his chest. Could it be possible? Dare he try? Sharing her joy with him was easy; easy for them _both_ , for what man wouldn’t want to bring joy to a beautiful woman? But sorrow after such joy - how could he ever earn her trust with such hurt?

Still, he had to try.

She sipped her tea, the blush alive on her cheeks, watching him and he could see a spark of curiosity in her eyes.

“What is it?” he asked, and she set down her teacup.

“May I ask you a question, Rumplestiltskin?”

“Oh, you can always ask,” he sang in answer, burying his thoughts of moments before in the necessity of the present; of having to forge this bond between them, even knowing what he would have to do in the end.

“Yes, but would you answer truthfully if I asked?”

“Well that’s the question, isn’t it?” He tipped his head. “Will the beast answer true, and if he says no he won’t, or yes he will, is he true in his answer?”

“You’re trying to confuse me,” she told him, though she smiled as she spoke, “And you’re not a beast.”

“Oh, but I am.” He rose from his seat, circling around behind hers, reaching over the ornate backrest to settle his hands on her shoulders. “All this time you’ve been coming, all the books I’ve shared, all this time we’ve spent together, and for what…?”

“Because it’s what I wanted,” she interjected even as he went on.

“…to take your joy and make it my own…”

“We shared.”

“…and now—” he stopped suddenly, frowning. “What do you mean, ‘we shared’?”

“We were both happy. So we _shared_ the feeling.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but any retort he might have made dissolved in her gaze as she turned beneath his touch, because he knew she was right.

“We… did.” He said, coming around the side of the chair to perch on the footstool by her feet. He dared. He _had_ to dare. “Would you… would you read something to me?”

Belle blinked, surprise showing on her face. “You… want me to read _to_ you?” she asked, her voice echoing that surprise.

“Yes.”

“One of your books?”

“Yes.”

“Another about magic?”

“No,” he said, “Not this one. This one is a story of many years in the lives of its protagonists. It tells of their love. It tells of their loss; their attempts to find one another… through time.”

“If you know what’s in the tale, why do you want me to read it to you?” she asked, obviously curious.

Hesitantly, he reached out to take her soft fingers into his hand, expecting she would pull away. She did not, though the blush returned to her cheeks, even as she leaned a little closer to him, her expression concentration, her eyes roving his face.

“Because… I know the tale, but not the book,” he said, lowering his voice with each word he spoke, and she leaned closer. “And… I don’t know another that could read it to me. Not… the way… I need.”

He reached out with the fingertips of his other hand to caress her soft, pink cheek; held his breath lest she pull away, but again she did not. Instead, she caught his hand beneath hers, leaned in to his touch, so close their foreheads were almost together.

“I will read your book,” she said, her voice almost as quiet as his whisper had been, “if… you will promise to answer my question truthfully.”

“But how do I know, if I don’t know the question?” he asked.

“You’ll just have to trust me, won’t you?” she said, “Your story for my question.”

* * *

Belle didn’t know from where the impulse came to trap his hand, to lean so close, to _breathe_ him in, but she could not stop herself; didn’t want to. She found that she felt more for this strange little man after only a week than she thought she could _ever_ feel for Gaston. He clearly respected her for her mind. He indulged her curiosity; allowed her to read his strange and wonderful books, and conversed with her on many topics, rather than dismiss her as a woman. It set a strange and lonely ache inside of her. She held her breath as she watched him obviously considering her words.

Finally, he closed that narrow gap between their heads, his eyes meeting hers as he said, soft and low, “Deal.”

They seemed frozen in time, held in the moment, until in a swirl of wild purple, like the deepest of hillside heathers, she suddenly felt the weight of a book in her lap, and Rumplestiltskin slowly pulled away.

“Ask your question.”

“You are a sorcerer…”

“Not a question.”

“…So, how come you were trapped here, in the dark corner?”

“Ah, that,” he said, and pressed his fingertips together, watching her watch him as she waited for his answer and she could almost see the thoughts whirling around behind his eyes. “I lost my temper, and made a foolish mistake. One that I shall not make again, I assure you.”

“That’s not an answer,” she said with a sigh.

“Then you should have asked the right question,” he answered, but with _such_ a silly expression on his face that she couldn’t help but laugh softly.

“All right, you trickster,” she shook her head, hoping that her tone took the sting from her name calling, “but I _will_ get it out of you.”

“All in good time, Dearie. All in good time,” he teased, and then pointed to the book. “Now read.”

Chuckling, and still shaking her head, she opened the book, and translating the ancient tome as she read, began the tale.

It was a labor of many, many days, but not one that she minded. At first, they kept their place beside the fire. Sometimes as she read, they would share tea, and sit across the small table from one another, and after those first few, uncertain days, he returned to the place he had taken before the story began, perched childlike on the footstool at her feet, gazing up at her in rapt concentration.

As more time passed, as he sat at her feet, he began to close his eyes, resting his folded arms atop her skirts and rested his head there on his arms. It startled her at first, but only for a moment. Afterwards, she took comfort in the weight of his head on her knees, for the tale took a dark and lonely turn, and his nearness helped to keep the sorrow from overtaking her, at least for a time.

And then the first of her tears fell.

It was unexpected. It wasn’t even one of the passages that held as much sadness as some of the others she had read and yet, without warning, a word, or a sentence, maybe even the sense of the passage struck like a knife to the heart. Her voice cracked, heat flooded her eyes, and her breath hitched in her chest, Without the shadow of a doubt she knew - somehow she just knew - that her mother’s time was coming to an end. With her there, with Gaston and his family rather than at home, she would never see her mother again.

* * *

One moment he was resting, lost in the story, at relative peace. His arms were on her knees, his head resting on his arms, and though he was certain she hadn’t yet realized what she was doing, her fingertips brushed softly at the edge of his wild, curly hair. It brought him comfort; let him forget that he was the Dark One, and all the things that he had done; had had little choice but to do anything else. Her quiet voice and gentle touch was like his wheel. He lost himself in the touch much as he had in the story. The next moment, the peace dissolved and a torrent of sudden grief swept through him, over him, so hard and fast that he couldn’t breathe.

It was the splash of her tear on the back of one hand that made him remember himself, and he sat up, as suddenly as the emotion had come. It still came, relentless. It kindled in him the memory, the sure and certain knowledge of himself as an orphan, a lost and lonely, abandoned child, and tears rose unshed in his _own_ eyes, as he met the brimming blue that overflowed onto Belle’s suddenly pale cheeks.

“Belle, my Belle,” he murmured without thought, and reached out to cup her cheeks as gently as he would a small bird. “Whatever is it? Whatever’s wrong…?

“She’s dying,” she wept. “She’s going to die… m-mother…!”

“Oh, Belle,” he whispered softly, and barely had the presence of mind to catch her when she threw herself from the chair and into his arms. He cradled her close; ran his fingers into her hair to guide her head to rest on his shoulder. His own captive tears found freedom and a track over his cheeks as he whispered, “Everything ends… we were all born to die.” She sobbed against him at his words. “Cold comfort, or none at all, I’m sure, but your mother,” he drew her back until he could look into her eyes, and she to his, “…she loves you, and has loved you since first she knew of you. She gave you _everything_ , everything you need to guide you through your life to come, and it will serve you well.”

“Rumple…” her voice hitched in a sob, mid word, “…stiltskin…”

“Hush now, Belle… and rest…”

He wiped away her tears, and slowly fluttered his fingers in front of her face, trailing gentle magic… soothing magic, as she relaxed her desperate grasp on him, and slipped quietly into sleep. He lifted her then, carried her across the room to the chaise lounge in the lee of the window, set her down and tenderly covered her with a blanket he conjured from the air. Then he lifted one of her hands to plant a gentle kiss to the back of it.

“Forgive me, sweetheart. I didn’t want to make you see. I didn’t want to be the cause of this for you.”

He retreated to the chairs by the fire, turned one of them so that he could watch over her from afar, brooding over all of those who suffered at the hands and spells of those so-called guardians of all that was light and good. It was only as the sun that had begun its descent toward night when everything had begun had fully set, that he realized with growing wonder, trembling with badly contained excitement at the realization, that she had shared her sorrow with him, that he had felt it… shared her joy, and now her sorrow too.

* * *

When Belle awoke, it was still night. The candles in the library had burned down low, but the fire remained warm in the hearth, and before it, sat silent and unmoving, Rumplestiltskin gazed her way. Her guardian. She sat up slowly, keeping the blanket around her shoulders as she stood and approached him. This time it was her turn to sit at his feet. To lower herself to the footstool and look up at him, still unmoving as though lost in meditation. She laid her hands on his knees and softly called his name, and only then he blinked and turned his face, and a confused smile, her way.

“Belle,” he said softly, “You woke.”

“Yes,” she answered. “Just now. You… you watched over me.”

“Yes,” he said with a nod. “I brought this on you, Belle. All this sorrow and fear.”

“No,” she murmured. “The _world_ brought this upon me… and upon _you_.”

He reached out to cup her cheek, and she leaned freely into his touch as he shook his head in wonder, his gold-flecked thumb idly and tenderly caressing her soft skin.

“How can you trust me,” he asked, “after all I have put you through; taken from you?”

“Shared with me,” she corrected him. “Rumplestiltskin, don’t you know? You have and always _have_ had my trust.”

She felt him stiffen then, just slightly, and only for a moment, before his other hand came up to cup the other side of her face and draw her closer to press a firm but gentle kiss to the middle of her forehead.

“Oh, Belle,” he breathed against the damp spot before he pulled back and she could see him again. She reached up to trace the pattern of gold scales on his cheek as he continued, “My dear young woman, you cannot know what a gift you have given me with those words. To be trusted, knowing who I am and what I have done - even if _you_ do not know - is beyond words that I can find to say. And all of this you have given freely.”

“What other way _is_ there to give it?” she asked, confused as she sat back down on the stool and took his hands in hers, caressing his skin, soft in spite of the scales, as she asked, “To be confined within a gilded cage such as this one, and _expected_ to give it?”

“No,” he said, “Not that… never that.”

“But tell me,” she craved, “I asked you once, and you gave me an answer that was no answer at all. Tell me true, my Rumplestiltskin, what happened that you were confined here, in the shadows, in the dark?”

“A long and sorry tale, of a boy abandoned by his father as a child, betrayed by his wife, and tricked into taking a path he did not truly understand in order to save his son, who was then lost to him through the interference of a fairy,” he said sadly.

“So you _are_ the Dark One,” she breathed as all the pieces of her reading fell into place and she recognized the bones of his tale from what she understood of the powerful and most feared sorcerer in all the realms.

“Yes,” he admitted, and released her hands, taking a breath, which hitched as though he expected her to run.

She frowned softly, and reached out to take his hands again, wanting to show him that it made not one breath of a difference to her _who_ he was. To her he was a man; a man that had shown her nothing but kindness and empathy, and if _that_ was the worse the Dark One was to be to her, then she would accept him with all her heart and soul. He deserved better.

“What did she do to you?” she asked softly. “You said you were foolish, lost your temper. What happened?”

And so she listened as he told her the tale of how the Blue Fairy had given his son a magic bean; of a promise he made, and a promise he broke to the boy he loved more than _anything_ in all the worlds, and how, because of that, and because of the interference of the fairy, with her bean, how he had lost his son - perhaps forever, though she sensed in him that he would never stop searching for his Baelfire.

* * *

Rumplestiltskin felt the final bonds break fast, one after the other as she spoke of her trust for him, and when she then reached out to take his hands in hers as he released her, after confessing his identity to her.

She didn’t care.

She accepted him for who he was.

Acceptance, the final key.

“I know you’ll find him,” she said softly, rising to her feet, as he came to his own, and tenderly took her in his arms.

“Yes,” he said simply, trying not to let himself be overcome with sorrow. He would like nothing more than to keep her light in his life now that he was free, but he could not - _would_ not - confine her in a place she did not wish to be, and he expected she would not wish to be in his Dark Castle any more than she wanted to be where she was _then_ , with Lord Gaston in the cage the lordling had gilded for her. He made a promise to himself though, there and then, that if what Belle had seen, as he tricked her into reading the enchanted _Book of Sorrow_ , came to pass as she feared it would, then he would somehow save her from an obviously uncaring world, and from those who did not deserve her.

“Yes,” he repeated, “And now you must go.”

“Go?” she asked, confusion in her tone.

“Yes, go,” he said. “Go home from here, to the mother that loves you… and you must forget.”

“Forget? Forget you? I don’t understand.”

“Yes,” he said again, “Forget.”

He cupped her face again then in his hands, and before she could respond, stole for himself a single brief moment. He pressed his lips to hers, and after but a heartbeat felt hers soften beneath the press of his, part to admit him, and he moaned as their tongues caressed, sharing breath, even as the deep purple swirl of his magic began to spiral up to surround her, to take her memories of her time at Castle Legume, her memories of him, and all the fears that she had confessed, and then to spirit her away.

It was a harder and longer task to steal the memories of all the people in the castle just the same, but by morning he was done, and as the first rays of sun lit the path to the forest, he closed the doors to the castle behind him and set off for his home, casting his magic mid stride, and setting a watch-ward over the kingdom of Avonlea.

He need not have.

Barely a year later, a message came to him from Avonlea. The Ogre Wars had flared again and the kingdom was under attack. He gathered all that he could to understand what had driven them to war again after the price of their survival in the first Ogre Wars had been that they leave human kingdoms alone, and through following a certain magical thread to to the Mirror of Souls, he found his answer.

He could not blame the Ogres.

Magic took him to the castle of Maurice of Avonlea as flawlessly as it always did, but it wasn’t enough, not then. He had to make an impression - an entrance - to be sure the memories he had taken from Belle had not returned, that any decision she would make would be her own, and not based upon what had grown between then as she had unbound him from the Blue Fairy’s geas.

He sent a magical knock to sound upon the doors, while appearing behind all in the room, occupying none other than Lord Maurice’s throne. She was clinging to her father’s arm, dressed in a glowing golden gown. The color suited her. Like the sun.

“Well that was a bit of a let-down.”

They turned to face him, and while he tried to keep his eyes on the men in the room, he could not help but take in the sight of Belle and the way she was looking at him, in cautious curiosity, but with no hint of recognition in her eyes.

“You sent me a message,” he went on as the great lummox Gaston approached him with a naked sword. He smothered his rising temper in feigned boredom. “Something about um… ‘Help, help! We’re dying. Can you save us?’ Well the answer is…” He rose to his feet and slapped Gaston’s weapon down, giving the man a wicked glance for barely a second, before he added, “Yes, I can. I can protect your little town… for a price.”

He circled the room, coming finally to stand, finger extended and pointing at Maurice as the robed elder walked quickly his way.

“We sent you a promise of gold,” Maurice said urgently.

“Ah,” he purred, “Now you see um… I um… make gold?” he spread his hands, as though to mime the fall of gold from his open hands, shifting his gaze among those gathered in the room, flicking his gaze back and forth between the men and Belle. His heart began to beat a little more quickly as she _still_ showed no sign of recognition, no foreknowledge whatsoever.

“What I want,” he kept his voice low, looking to Maurice again, “is something a bit more… _special_.” He kept his eyes fixed on the Lord of Avonlea, while pointing flawlessly over Marice’s shoulder as he finished, “My price… is _her_.”

She frowned, and the fool Gaston pressed an arm across her body as if trying to push her behind him.

“No,” Marice refused him.

“The young lady is engaged,” Gaston added. “To me.”

Feigning incredulity, Rumplestiltskin gestured grandly and in high pitched astonishment at Gaston’s idiocy said, “I wasn’t asking if she was engaged. I’m not looking for… love.” He was thankful his back was to all of them in that moment, not wanting to see their expressions while he gathered himself. “I’m looking for a caretaker,” he continued, turning back to them. His eyes on Belle, remembering what she had said to him about being tired of being served her whole life. “For my rather large… estate.”

Still gesturing grandly, now trying _hard_ to jog anything within Belle that would cause her to remember him - to be sure of her own free will, he pointed and said, “It’s her… or no deal.”

“Get out,” Maurice ordered, growling after pointing at the open doorway, “Leave!”

Inwardly, Rumplestiltskin growled as Gaston pushed Belle out of the way, behind himself, and Belle quite obviously objected to his manhandling her.

“As you wish,” he said calmly, slowly walking between them all and _feeling_ her eyes on him.

“No, wait!” she finally spoke, and he smiled, and turned back to her. In the back of his mind knowing that he couldn’t have simply walked away and left her there even if she had said nothing; even if the rest of Avonlea was to be razed to the ground, her would save her. She extricated herself from Gaston’s restraint, and approached him, frowning but fearless. She looked him up and down, and then said firmly, “I will go with him.”

Rumplestiltskin felt his heart soar, and he let out a sound of delight, clapping his hands together in glee.

“I forbid it!” Gaston exclaimed, while her father gasped her name, but Belle turned to them, like the determined young and beautiful woman he knew her to be.

“No one decides my fate but me,” she said. “I shall go.”

“It’s forever, Dearie,” he warned her, pointed joined fingers in her direction.

“My family, my friends, they will all live?” she demanded.

“You have my word,” he told her softly, and with a bow.

“Then you have _mine_ ,” she said. “I will go… with you… forever.”


End file.
